Blood Orchard Part 15

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

Jay hurried down the hall. He crossed the living room and paused at the edge of the linoleum. The crazy guy braced himself, tugged hard on the sliding gla.s.s door, as if fighting to keep something out.

"Hey, buddy!" Jay was sick of the guy's antics. He wanted to walk out the front door, but he knew he had to calm him down. He was certain the maniac was involved in the kidnappings. He was too irascible not to be. "Whatever the h.e.l.l your name is!"

"Coren! Prop the 2x4! Now, Opie!"

Jay shook his head as he entered the kitchen. If it calmed the guy down from boiling to simmering, then maybe he would be able to question him further.

"The name's Jay. Not Opie." He crouched down, picked up the lacquered 2x4. "If I do this, are you going to calm down and tell me what's going on?"

"Yes!"

Coren's fingers were slipping. His face was flushed. He gritted his teeth. His eyes were glued to the gla.s.s. While Jay saw an unkempt backyard, he saw a dead obese girl struggling to get the best of him. She had wrenched her hands out of the barbed wire, skinning them to the bone, and then had s.h.i.+fted all her weight to the tug-of-war. Her upside-down head gasped and coughed up greenish-black swamp water, which dribbled down the gla.s.s. Coren was uncertain why he refused to let this sister into the house, but he had a bad feeling about her. After all, she had emerged from the grave on her own, without his help.

Jay dropped the 2x4 into the gap between the wall and the door. "There. Are you happy?"

Coren released the handle. No sooner had he done so the 2x4 snapped in half and exploded into splinters as the door slammed it against the wall. Jay staggered back and s.h.i.+elded his eyes. Coren was thrown to the floor. A blast of hot air screamed through the kitchen, a hint of rotten apples permeating within. The dining room table and chairs overturned. The cupboard doors clapped open and shut.

Coren watched agape as the third sister barreled into the house like a bull, shrieking her decapitated head off. It was as if a h.e.l.lish hurricane propelled her forth. He watched her blackened feet slap on the linoleum. Her skinless hand clutched the living room wall. She rounded the corner, her screams echoing down the hall. He knew she was searching for her sisters.

Jay dropped his hands from his ears and peeled his trembling body off the wall. "What was that?"

"If I told you -"

"I wouldn't believe you. You're d.a.m.n right! So start explaining!"

A bang resounded from the other end of the house, which was followed by cries that were cut short by a second bang. Coren knew by the sound that it was the panic room door. The fat zombie was dying to be with her sisters.

Coren brushed the splinters off his pants and stood. "You should've listened when I told you the first time."

"Well, I'm listening now."

"There are dead triplets in my panic room! If you can't see them, then I don't know, this place must be haunted! But they're back there, doing G.o.d knows what!" Coren crossed the kitchen, slammed the deck door, and then opened the refrigerator. "Don't tell me you didn't feel the last one come through here. There's no way I've got the strength to crush a 2x4."

Jay shut his eyes for a few seconds. He had indeed felt the hot rush of air. He had even smelled apples again. And Coren had a point. He had never seen a deck door reduce a 2x4 to splinters on its own. He opened his eyes, and then narrowed them as Coren removed a red mesh bag of Fujis.

"What is it with the apples?"

Coren shook his head and shut the refrigerator. "I don't know, but they eat them."

"I thought you said they were ghosts."

"They are, but they're not. I dragged two of them out of the wells in the backyard." Coren stepped into the living room. "I don't know what they are."

A floodlight s.h.i.+ned in Jay's head. "You have the Trammell triplets somewhere in that panic room and you're trying to hide the smell with the apples. Aren't you? Aren't you?"

Coren whirled. "I told you they're teenagers! How would a baby throw open a door?"

Coren and Jay stared at one another for a good thirty seconds. Their wheels were spinning on the same track. Jay was lost in thought on the Pritchard triplets. They were blond, they were teenagers, and they had mysteriously disappeared. But what would they be doing in Coren's house? If they were in fact ghosts - ones that he failed to see, mind you - was it possible that they had died on the property?

Jay killed the silence. "Who owned this house before you?"

Coren threw up his arms. "What does that matter? I own it now and I have to deal with this. You think I'm going to call the previous owner and tell him he forgot to take his ghosts with him?"

"No. Whoever owned the place killed those three girls you're seeing and buried them in your yard."

"What are you? A detective?"

"A reporter. I work for WND -"

"Y. Jay Donovan. I thought you looked familiar." Coren shook his head. He tossed the bag of apples. "Catch!"

"If we're going to the panic room, I told you I can't see them."

"But you can feel them. I'll prove to you they're here."

Jay sighed, cradled the bag of Fujis, and followed Coren through the living room. Thanks to the panic room, the house was dead silent. Jay had the urge to tiptoe, but fought it, reminding himself that if there were indeed ghosts they were probably holding their hands.

Coren stopped at the end of the hall, grasped the slit in the wall, and yanked hard. It refused to budge. He gave it two more tugs for good measure, which yielded the same result.

Jay slung the bag of apples over his shoulder. "Any chance you locked it from the inside?"

"Uh-uh. The fat chick wants to play tug-of-war again."

"What brings you out to the farm, Burl?"

"You pa.s.sed me back there on East Walnut. You're usually hauling apples to the store, not to your barn. So I guess you could say it was a bit of a red flag."

"Is it just you here?"

"Yeah, it's just me! Why? What did you do, Hank?"

"It wasn't nothing I did. It was Pritchard."

Burl rounded the grill of the pickup. He froze as Barter's remains came into full view. His jaw dropped. He turned his head and vomited into a stall.

Hank approached the charred body. "Now don't be jumping to any conclusions."

"What am I supposed to think?" Burl faced Hank as chunks of vomit dribbled down his beard. "Whose body is that?"

"Well...Did you hear about that Homicide detective in town?"

"Oh Christ no. Tell me you didn't. It was only all over the Tribune!"

"I didn't do this!" Hank kicked Barter's midsection. Blood squirted out of his bone-white mouth like some sick condiment dispenser. "Pritchard did!"

"Then what's the body doing here?"

"He's making me hide it."

"In the barn?" Burl rubbed his scarred chin and paced the short distance between the tailgate and Barter's corpse. "Not again, Hank! Not again! Why don't you hang a big "X" from the hayloft while you're at it?"

"Screw you! This would be the last place anybody would look."

"Wake up, you stupid idiot! It's a torture museum! I told you to get rid of this junk years ago! It's a crime lab's wet dream!"

"I ain't getting rid of 'em." Hank turned his back and walked over to the rack. "I need a reminder of what I've done. I don't bury my guilt like you do, Burl."

"No, you just bury detectives. We shouldn't be revisiting the past, Hank! Once the P.D. finds out Barter's missing, those bomb scares will be on the backburner."

"Bomb scares?"

"Don't you own a TV?" Burl stopped pacing. The stench of death blended with the sweet cider. "Oh, that's right, you've been acting out your own drama. Why do you think they forgot about the kidnappings? Something more important came up, that's why."

"They've got no reason to search my barn." As Hank uttered those words, the Texaco glared in his mind's eye. There was no sweeping that wreckage beneath a rug. That mess alone would lead a SWAT team to his doorstep. "Besides which, I don't have a choice. Pritchard said he'd pin the murder on me."

"I've got no part in this, Hank, nor do I want the helm in your boat. My hands are clean and they're going to stay that way."

Hank whirled and dug his right spur into the leg of the rack. "Your hands are stained, Burl! You can't wash 'em of the past!"

"My lips are zipped and I'm out of here." Burl shook his head, twisted his beard, and headed toward the doors. "And don't think you're getting anymore apples from me!"

"Don't leave me, you murderer!"

Francine ran past Kate's Bakery without so much as a glance at the window of pastries. She rounded the storefront and followed the alleyway. Unlike in a big city, it was a clean, narrow pa.s.sage with floodlights an inch below the roofline. The walls were devoid of dumpsters and cardboard houses. Instead, there were steel side doors on the left and right and a seven-foot tall cedar privacy fence marking the dead end.

You can do this. A sc.r.a.pe of pebbles s.n.a.t.c.hed Francine's attention. Loren slipped around the corner, almost losing her balance. Just pretend it's the monkey bars and use the posts for footholds.

"Smeller!" Loren raised the screwdriver and hurled it like a throwing knife. The flathead stabbed the fence a hair from Francine's arm. "You're dead!"

Francine ignored Loren. She lifted her leg and jammed her shoe between the splintered slat. The second 2x4 was a foot higher. She scaled it like a ladder. She had one more post to climb to reach the top. She pulled her shoe out of the slat and raised it to the next level.

"I got ya!"

Loren seized Francine's ankle with her left hand and wrenched the screwdriver out of the fence with her right. Francine had her right foot braced on the topmost 2x4 and struggled to pull her left from Loren's grasp. She kicked down, and then yanked up her leg. Her ankle broke free. As she raised it to the top of the fence Loren jumped and jabbed the screwdriver into her calf.

Francine cried out. She heard whoops and hollers, then spotted the sisters barreling down the alley with weapons in hand. She clenched her teeth against the pain as tears streamed down her cheeks. She had to get over the fence. She had to.

The fence rattled. Francine looked down. Loren was trying to shake her off. Instead, the blood from Francine's wound trickled and splattered on her face. Loren let go, disgusted.

Francine straddled the top of the fence and clambered to the other side, trembling on the opposite 2x4. She grabbed the screwdriver and yanked it from her calf, crying out as blood squirted and dripped off her shoe.

Henna, red-faced and eyes bulging, shouldered the fence like a linebacker. It lurched back as if on the verge of collapsing. "Yer dead, Smeller! I'm gonna kill ya!"

Francine stepped down to the next 2x4. Henna leaped and grabbed the top of the fence. Without a second thought, Francine jabbed the screwdriver into her knuckles. Henna hollered and tried to retract her hand, but it was pinned to the slat by the flathead.

Francine stepped down, missing the last 2x4. She fell back and gasped when her fall was cus.h.i.+oned. She looked up into the worried faces of Burl Nelson and Hank Adler. Biting their tongues, they hauled her towards the orchard.

Pritchard regarded Marten's squad car. He hadn't antic.i.p.ated killing one of his own. The plus side was that he would have no problem pinning the crime on Hank. After all, it was his store. His shotgun casings littered the aisles. And wherever Barter's body was buried, it would be covered with the farmer's fingerprints.

Pritchard grinned. A house call seemed unnecessary. It was wiser to let Hank think that only one officer's blood was on his hands. In that case, maybe it was best to leave the squad car parked before the storefront. He was uncertain if it would raise suspicion. Though the Texaco was in ruins, the eyewitness news traffic had died altogether thanks to terrorism in Chicago. His mind was made up. He was going to slash the tires and leave Marten's body to rot.

He reached into his pant pocket, withdrew a Swiss army knife. It was one of the few mementos left behind by his daughter Sylvia. It always sparked the same memory of her carving Henna's name into her forearm. It still filled him with pride knowing how much his children had loved one another.

He slashed the tires one by one. He stepped back, pocketed the knife, and regarded his handiwork as he sparked the last Marlboro in his pack.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

Coren released the handle, stared at the door.

Jay's shoulder ached from the bag of apples. "Maybe you should kick it down."

"And what if Pritchard makes another house call?"

"Then he's going to see what I've been seeing. Nothing! You've got nothing hidden in that panic room!"

"Give me that!" Coren s.n.a.t.c.hed the bag from Jay, and then kicked the door with his right foot. It reverberated, but stood tall.

"Stand back. Let me try."

While on location Jay had seen numerous police officers gain entry into locked doors. Since his left shoulder was sore, he planned on slamming his right near the handle. Coren stepped aside as Jay backed into the hallway wall. He then took his five-step running start.

The door opened. Jay ran inside and his shoulder connected with a cold, invisible wall that knocked him to the hardwood floor. The scent of cider flooded his nostrils.

Coren hesitated at the doorway, his face a cross between surprise and disgust. He had watched Jay rush into the room and collide smack-dab with the fat zombie. His shoulder crushed her upside-down face, which dangled between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. It was probably better the reporter didn't know what hit him.

Coren stepped into the room, glimpsing Well Girl #1 doing a handstand against the wall with her twisted, black-and-blue feet braced in the door handle. He reached down, grabbed Jay beneath the arms, and lifted him to his feet.

Jay was pale. He ran his palm over his face as he realized it was coated with a transparent slime. "What the h.e.l.l?"